The Lover
by AcneGoddess
Summary: Mycroft and Lestrade are in a relationship. John attempts to keep Sherlock in the dark.
1. Chapter 1

It was a rainy Sunday, if I recall correctly. Sherlock and I had just returned from a particularly long case in Dublin and already the Yard already had something for us to investigate without giving us a moments peace. I was running on thirty minute naps, coffee, and the occasional fast food item. Sherlock? The insane git was running on five days of pure adrenaline.

The case wasn't anything gripping; nothing at all to write on the blog about, and Sherlock made that extremely clear by complaining for five minutes and then determining who the killer was in two. To be honest, even _I _was surprised that they couldn't figure it out themselves.

Even after the arrest was made (the bloody murderer was _in the room_), Sherlock made sure to drive his irritation home by terrorizing everyone working on the case and making them feel like utter shit. Then again, he does that every time. During the prolonged verbal abuse towards innocent people, Greg pulled me into his office locking the door behind him and turning to look at me with uncertainty.

"This thing was a walk in the park, mate," he said, "and it's not the reason why I asked for you two to come." Frantically, he glanced around the room. I didn't have to be a consulting detective to deduce that he had a juicy secret, and who _would _I be to pass up some good gossip? He plopped down at his desk and gestured for me to sit across from him.

"I have recently taken a lover…" he began hesitantly.

"That's great news!" I exclaimed, grinning. Greg had always had some lady issues, and it was great to see that he had finally hooked the interest of a gal. "Congratulations! Can't believe Sherlock hasn't deduced it yet. Who's the lucky lady?"

"See, that's the issue… the lucky lady isn't exactly a _lady_…"

"Okay, so you've got a lucky man." I realize a lot of people would be put off by this, but when your sister is an alcoholic lesbian, you learn to deal with sexuality in the worst way possible. "Who's the lucky man?"

"Sherlock's brother."

Suddenly, things got very personal very fast. I blinked at him, unsure if he was being honest or playing a very serious practical joke. "You serious?"

Rubbing a hand over his tired face, he nodded solemnly. "Yes. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft…"

I turned to look behind me, just in case Sherlock was hovering by the door or there was a camera crew from _Punk'd _ready to pounce, but Sherlock moved his anger onto a poor rookie and there were no cameras in sight.

"You're messing with me. Really?"

"Yes…"

"With Sherlock's _brother_? Sherlock's brother who plays a minor role in the _British government, _Sherlock's brother?"

"_Yes_…"

"No, nah; you… you've gotta be kidding me. Did you go… y'know… _all the way_?"

"Big time."

I could think of no better way to utter my shock than a graceful "shit," and he shrunk so far into his seat that it was like he was melded to it.

"Oh, my God."

"I know."

"_Oh_, _my God._"

"I _know_."

"Jesus, I… Sherlockdoesn't know, does he?"

"No, and we'd like to keep it that way."

I let out a harsh laugh, slightly manic. "He's going to find out, Greg. He _always_ finds things out. For God's sake, he knew how old my toothbrush was by looking at the curve of my upper lip, you don't think that you and his brother are having _sexual relations_?"

"_Shh_!" he hissed, his hands flying forward to try and cover my mouth. "Don't be giving it away!"

"_You'll _be giving it away yourself by the state of your shoes, or something ridiculous like that!" I argued. "For both of our sakes, Greg, _please_; never, _ever _see Mycroft again. You know how Sherlock can get, and frankly, I don't want to deal with it."

"I know, mate; I know! The last thing I want to do is have a brooding teenaged detective working cases, but I… Jesus, John, I'm kind of _in love _with Mycroft."

"_Love_," I groaned, rubbing my forehead. There was enough stress on my shoulders by running after lethal criminals, I didn't need Sherlock bitching and moaning about his brother having sex with the detective inspector of the London Police Force.

"Okay, you know what?" Abruptly, I stood, tapping my fingers on the desk in front of me. "I am going to leave, we are going to forget this ever happened and we will _desperately hope _that Sherlock never finds out about this."

With that, I turned on my heel and left Greg to his Holmes brother crisis. Give me Jim Moriarty, a gigantic hound and my crazy ex girlfriends over an extremely moody Sherlock any day. It was times like this, when I seized him by the arm and forcefully dragged him out of the building, that I thanked my years of military training for making me able to manhandle all six feet of the lanky git. God knows I would need every ounce of it later on.


	2. Chapter 2

Luck seemed to be on my side for a while after. To my relief, neither half of the unexpected couple bothered us, likely in hopes that distant communication between them and Sherlock would make the idea of them being a "thing" even more unfathomable than it already was.

Sherlock, too, was placated with an interesting string of messages submitted to his blog, all written in complete gibberish with a simple hint attached to them. It was enough to keep him busy enough to not complain about how busy he wasn't, and I was perfectly fine with that. A happy detective makes for a happy doctor.

Two weeks later, there was trouble in paradise. I had just come home from the clinic and was beginning to make my way up the seventeen stairs to 221b when I heard the angry plucking of Sherlock's violin and the vexed tapping of a certain rain-fending object on the hardwood floor. I immediately felt the need to turn and haul my arse out the door and catch the soonest flight to America, but I knew it would be of no use. Those geniuses probably knew I was there already, and exactly what step I was on and that a patient threw up on my shoes earlier that day.

"Mycroft's got a date tonight," Sherlock informed me curtly once I decided to grow a pair and walk in. He didn't tear his eyes away from his brother, but his brother tore his eyes up to me in what I knew was a plea for help hidden behind his resigned exterior.

"Good to see you, John."

"You, too. Tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"I'll get the kettle boiled, then."

Quickly, I brushed past them in the living room to do just that, ignoring (or, pretending to ignore) Sherlock's flummoxed expression. Had Mycroft been dating any other person, I would be gung-ho to learn all about how Sherlock knew that they had a date, but we're talking about Mycroft dating _Greg _and that was a painful conversation that needed to be avoided for as long as possible.

"Don't you want to know how I know?"

"He told you?" I guessed dumbly, trying to make as much clatter as I possibly could to drown him out. And he did go silent for a moment, but sure enough, he continued as though I cared to listen.

"Botticelli's, John! The most prestigious of all restaurants! I know that because I saw the card in his wallet when he pulled his phone out of his pocket! It was slightly bent at the corners, John! Slightly bent!"

"Wonderful news, Sherlock."

"I know it's tonight because his shoes are recently polished and there are cake crumbs on the lapels of his suit which indicate that he binged earlier so he won't be as hungry when he goes out! He went against his diet, John!"

Maybe if I pretended not to hear him over the sound of me pouring the water into the cup, he would stop trying.

"He's dieting because he is _fat_, John! He's-oh, for God's sake; why aren't you paying attention to me?!"

His wailing was beginning to make it seem as though he was an attention-starved toddler, which really wasn't that farfetched, and like so many other parents who have dealt with it too much to let it bother them, Mycroft and I shared a deadpan look as I passed him his tea and plopped myself down onto the couch.

"He's got _love_ on the mind, John! Can't you tell by the way-"

"Do stop showing off, brother," Mycroft scolded in attempt to stop him before he got too far with his deductions. "I came here to exchange pleasantries, not be judged."

"Yeah, maybe you should just let it go," I added in. "Clearly he doesn't want to talk about it."

Scandalized, Sherlock dropped his violin onto the seat cushion, scowling at it like it was the cause of every hardship he had ever gone through. "Since when did you feel so inclined to back him up?" he scoffed at me before turning his attention to Mycroft. "And since when did _you _feel so inclined to 'exchange pleasantries' with me?" You could almost see the gears turning in his head as he added two and two together. I almost wished the gears would rust so I wouldn't have to deal with his bullshit, because of course, he aimed his focus back on to _me_: "You know who he's dating."

I suddenly found myself caught under the piercing gaze of both Holmes boys, and that alone would make an academy award winning horror film. Sherlock's said "tell me or you'll die," while Mycroft's said "tell him and you're dead." As you can see, I had quite a lot riding on me in that moment.

"Well, erm, Sherlock… I thought you didn't care about who's dating who, so wh-"

"Who's dating _whom_," Mycroft corrected in the background, but we'll just say that I didn't hear him.

"What changed?"

"_Mycroft _started dating, which means I have the possible opportunity of humiliating him. I'm going to seize it before whomever he is dating realizes that he is not a person worth dating." A reasonable answer for an estranged brother. "So, _who is it_?"

"Merely a co-worker." Surprise, surprise; he halfway let the cat out of the bag, earning the undivided attention of both Sherlock and I. If the secret got out after I did such a great job of hiding it, Mycroft would need more than the protection of the British government to save him from my wrath. "Surely that is enough for you?"

It was funny because he actually thought that it would be enough to satiate the beast we know as the consulting detective.

"A co-worker," he repeated, taking a moment to chew the thought over in his head. In addition to seeing the gears, I could hear them click. I buried my head in my hands, saying a silent adieu to my last moments of calm before the storm because he was already off pacing, and when Sherlock Holmes paces you know shit is about to hit the fan. "It couldn't be someone you work _extremely_ close with, because you would never mix your personal life with your personal business affairs. This is someone you don't see on a daily basis, this is someone who is on a lower branch than you are; most likely someone on the police force but _who_, is the question. _Who _on that team of idiots is of Mycroft's standards? _Who_ has standards low enough to date him? Who could it…"

And he fell silent, and the pacing stopped. The silence in the room was deafening. Muffled rap music played in the distance. Slowly, I poked my head up to see a look of complete and utter _mortification_ written on Sherlock's face. To date, it was the most emotion I have ever seen expressed on that man's face.

"_No_." It came out barely as an audible whisper, and he whipped around to stare at Mycroft in order to either confirm or deny his suspicions. Mycroft didn't meet his gaze, but gave one minuscule, curt nod that brought the world to a halt. "Oh, no, no, no. Not… Lestrade?" Another half-nod from Mycroft. "No. _No_. _NO_!"

Abruptly, he tore down the stairs with his screams increasing in volume, and he slammed the front door so hard that it shook the walls. His anguished howling of "Oh, my God!" could be heard from across the street, where he startled a flock of pigeons and an old couple out for a stroll.

That, friends, marks the day from which my life turned into a living hell.


End file.
